Information about Shakeel’s secret visit the previous night had reached the army camp. Within half an hour, the Quick Reaction Teams of the army had fanned out to cordon off the village. In the stealth of darkness, disturbed only by the barking dogs, the soldiers had moved in from different directions and taken position to plug the exit routes from the village. However, before the cordon could be completely laid, the mujahids had sneaked out and were on their way to the safety of Akhrot Point.
After a confidential discussion with Major Rathore, Gul Mohammad walks past the queue of men and carefully scans the beleaguered faces. He knows each one of them by name and face. The villagers look at him and try to find succour in his eyes. After all, he is the solitary conduit between them and the army.
When he reaches Khalid, he pauses meaningfully and a wry grin reflects on his face. Khalid avoids looking him in the eye. Gul Mohammad then walks past the queue of women and sees his own wife and daughters sitting with their heads draped in dupattas. Some women stop him and shyly whisper “Chota Peshab” in his ear. Gul Mohammad apprises the JCO standing nearby about the urge of the women to urinate. The JCO laughs and says, “Let them pee in front of our eyes, we will also get to see where they hide the terrorists.”
After circling both rows twice, Gul Mohammad reports back to Major Rathore, “No strangers, sir, all are from the village.” Then he pleads the case of the women who need to answer nature’s call. Major Rathore concedes the request. One by one, the women go to the back of the school building and then return to their original places.
In the meantime, six teams of crack commandos, Alpha to Foxtrot, have been despatched to search the village for hidden terrorists, arms and ammunition. The teams spread out in the village and assiduously check the hayricks, heaps of cattle fodder and the maize fields. They break into empty houses and probe every nook and corner. The mangers in the cowsheds, hencoops and false ceilings are thoroughly checked. Carpets are rolled up and the wooden floors are tapped to check for underground hiding places. Locked chests are broken open and trunks are rummaged through. Clothes are taken out of boxes and strewn all over. Some soldiers ransack the cupboards and shoe racks.
While a house-to-house search continues in the village, the tension in the school is clearly palpable. One of the classrooms is opened, and a JCO and three soldiers perch themselves on the broken desks. A picture of Mahatma Gandhi encased in a glass frame smiles down at them benignly from above the blackboard. On the back wall, a poster in bold black font screams, “I Love My India”. Outside, another JCO scans the men’s queue, points to certain men and directs them towards the classroom. Though the men appear to be picked randomly, there is, in fact, a method to his selection.
The chosen ones are invariably in their late teens or early twenties or sport beards and wear skullcaps. The JCO carefully studies the body language of the men also and those who hesitate to make eye contact with him are ordered inside the classroom. In the classroom, the identity cards of these men are once again thoroughly scrutinized. Their names, professions and other particulars are recorded in a notepad.
The mood of the interrogators fluctuates from cordial to intimidating. They preach, poke fun and indulge in sleazy talk bordering on sadism. A soldier raps some boys on their knuckles with a thick stick. Sometimes he punches them in the chest or forcefully grabs them by their hair. A volley of questions is fired at the young boys.
“How many women are there in your house?”
“Do you go to Parvati Kund for grazing your goats?”
“Why have you grown this beard?”
“Who can hit the cricket ball farther – Afridi orTendulkar?”
“Do you know how to fire a Kalashnikov?”
“When was the last time you saw a terrorist?”
“Where the fuck is Akhrot Point?”
While the boys are interrogated inside, their families outside have their eyes glued to the classroom doors. The longer they stay inside, the greater the anxiety outside. Kausar Jan continues to thumb her rosary and hopes that Khalid is not sent in.
By this time, the sun starts to blaze over the village. At the school, some children wail with hunger only to be silenced by their mothers. They cajole them, pet them and even try to intimidate them by pointing at the soldiers and their ugly guns. Gul Mohammad, along with two men and five women, is assigned the task of getting milk for the children.
Soon, packed lunches for the soldiers arrive from the company headquarters. Biscuits, bananas and loaves of bread are served with the packed lunch. These are distributed by two JCOs among the villagers. The women and children get a major portion.
The meticulous search goes on for hours, but no evidence of terror, not a footprint or a bullet, can be traced. When three of the six teams send the message “Nothing to Report” (NTR), Major Rathore falls into a disappointed silence. As an afterthought, he sends a coded message over the radio that translates, “Call me when you reach the area commander’s house.”
Inside Kausar Jan’s house, Major Rathore personally supervises the search. He orders the soldiers to check behind the picture of the Grand Mosque of Mecca and under the heap of blankets and bedsheets. They search the attic, where they rummage through the clothes and some dirty underwear belonging to Khalid.
In a secret drawer, the soldiers find a stash of currency notes, old school books and a few amulets bought from Baba Ghulam Baksh Ziyarat. Major Rathore gives a cursory glance to the items, examines the currency, and puts it back in the drawer. Two soldiers enter the kitchen that is blackened with the soot of burnt cowpats. They check under the pile of firewood, inside a pot of butter, as well as the sack of maize flour. They run their hands through a heap of pomegranate seeds and check the sack of red chillies. The saucers and cauldrons are checked and the spices are smelled. In a corner, lie three unwashed plates.
Major Rathore examines the kitchen with a keen eye. He lifts up a used plate and feels the markings of slithery butter on it with the tip of his finger. He does the same with the other two plates as well. He can feel the tiny granules of maize bread in the butter. “Two people and three plates,” he thinks and his eyes narrow. Then he checks the cups and finds that three of them remain unwashed. The pinkish dregs of salty tea stain the bottom and sides of the porcelain cups.
“What the fuck!” he says, and hurriedly comes out of the house.
Kausar Jan is the only woman brought to the classroom. Major Rathore wants to have a chat with her. He is respectful and asks her to sit on a bench as he calls for tea. “Ammi, have a cup, I know it has been a difficult day for you and the village. I beg your forgiveness, but what can I do when it is my duty to save our brothers and sisters from the terrorists?”
He extends a small glass of steaming hot tea towards her.
The fact that Major Rathore has called her Ammi puts Kausar Jan at ease. Is he her fifth son? She refuses the tea, but Major Rathore insists. A few sips of tea soothe her frayed nerves. He then orders the JCOs to leave the room. “It seems this year the maize crop is going to bring abundant flour to the houses of the poor villagers,” he says, trying to win her trust.
He looks affectionately at Kausar Jan, noticing the grey strands in her hair and her wizened hands holding the glass. “My mother is almost your age and she waits for me all the time. Wouldn’t she be delighted if I landed in Jaipur right now?” Major Rathore says with a twinkle in his eye, as if he were talking to his own mother. He then falls into a long silence and takes small sips from his glass.
“When was the last time Shakeel visited you, Ammi?” he asks softly; he does not want to intimidate her. “When was the last time he gave you money?” Kausar Jan realises then that Major Rathore knows everything about the previous night and that she has not been called to the classroom to talk about the maize crop.
She does not want to lie, for it might bring trouble to Khalid. Tears fill her eyes as she starts to speak, “My other son Khalid stays at home with me, he is a good boy. I do not even know where Shakeel has been these three years, and last night, when he knocked on the door, I did not even recognise him with that beard.”
“I understand your dilemma. What could you do when faced with a gun, even if it is carried by your own son?” Major Rathore’s words are kind, much to her relief. “Did he come alone? Did he reveal where he was headed for?” A few more polite questions are directed at her. Major Rathore knows that his source of information has not failed him.
He pardons the mother’s love and orders Kausar Jan to be escorted back to the queue of women. After all, she had no choice when Shakeel knocked on her door. The only things she had to offer were tears, love and some butter.
Excerpted with permission from Red Maize, Danesh Rana, HarperCollins India.
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After a confidential discussion with Major Rathore, Gul Mohammad walks past the queue of men and carefully scans the beleaguered faces. He knows each one of them by name and face. The villagers look at him and try to find succour in his eyes. After all, he is the solitary conduit between them and the army.
When he reaches Khalid, he pauses meaningfully and a wry grin reflects on his face. Khalid avoids looking him in the eye. Gul Mohammad then walks past the queue of women and sees his own wife and daughters sitting with their heads draped in dupattas. Some women stop him and shyly whisper “Chota Peshab” in his ear. Gul Mohammad apprises the JCO standing nearby about the urge of the women to urinate. The JCO laughs and says, “Let them pee in front of our eyes, we will also get to see where they hide the terrorists.”
After circling both rows twice, Gul Mohammad reports back to Major Rathore, “No strangers, sir, all are from the village.” Then he pleads the case of the women who need to answer nature’s call. Major Rathore concedes the request. One by one, the women go to the back of the school building and then return to their original places.
In the meantime, six teams of crack commandos, Alpha to Foxtrot, have been despatched to search the village for hidden terrorists, arms and ammunition. The teams spread out in the village and assiduously check the hayricks, heaps of cattle fodder and the maize fields. They break into empty houses and probe every nook and corner. The mangers in the cowsheds, hencoops and false ceilings are thoroughly checked. Carpets are rolled up and the wooden floors are tapped to check for underground hiding places. Locked chests are broken open and trunks are rummaged through. Clothes are taken out of boxes and strewn all over. Some soldiers ransack the cupboards and shoe racks.
While a house-to-house search continues in the village, the tension in the school is clearly palpable. One of the classrooms is opened, and a JCO and three soldiers perch themselves on the broken desks. A picture of Mahatma Gandhi encased in a glass frame smiles down at them benignly from above the blackboard. On the back wall, a poster in bold black font screams, “I Love My India”. Outside, another JCO scans the men’s queue, points to certain men and directs them towards the classroom. Though the men appear to be picked randomly, there is, in fact, a method to his selection.
The chosen ones are invariably in their late teens or early twenties or sport beards and wear skullcaps. The JCO carefully studies the body language of the men also and those who hesitate to make eye contact with him are ordered inside the classroom. In the classroom, the identity cards of these men are once again thoroughly scrutinized. Their names, professions and other particulars are recorded in a notepad.
The mood of the interrogators fluctuates from cordial to intimidating. They preach, poke fun and indulge in sleazy talk bordering on sadism. A soldier raps some boys on their knuckles with a thick stick. Sometimes he punches them in the chest or forcefully grabs them by their hair. A volley of questions is fired at the young boys.
“How many women are there in your house?”
“Do you go to Parvati Kund for grazing your goats?”
“Why have you grown this beard?”
“Who can hit the cricket ball farther – Afridi orTendulkar?”
“Do you know how to fire a Kalashnikov?”
“When was the last time you saw a terrorist?”
“Where the fuck is Akhrot Point?”
While the boys are interrogated inside, their families outside have their eyes glued to the classroom doors. The longer they stay inside, the greater the anxiety outside. Kausar Jan continues to thumb her rosary and hopes that Khalid is not sent in.
By this time, the sun starts to blaze over the village. At the school, some children wail with hunger only to be silenced by their mothers. They cajole them, pet them and even try to intimidate them by pointing at the soldiers and their ugly guns. Gul Mohammad, along with two men and five women, is assigned the task of getting milk for the children.
Soon, packed lunches for the soldiers arrive from the company headquarters. Biscuits, bananas and loaves of bread are served with the packed lunch. These are distributed by two JCOs among the villagers. The women and children get a major portion.
The meticulous search goes on for hours, but no evidence of terror, not a footprint or a bullet, can be traced. When three of the six teams send the message “Nothing to Report” (NTR), Major Rathore falls into a disappointed silence. As an afterthought, he sends a coded message over the radio that translates, “Call me when you reach the area commander’s house.”
Inside Kausar Jan’s house, Major Rathore personally supervises the search. He orders the soldiers to check behind the picture of the Grand Mosque of Mecca and under the heap of blankets and bedsheets. They search the attic, where they rummage through the clothes and some dirty underwear belonging to Khalid.
In a secret drawer, the soldiers find a stash of currency notes, old school books and a few amulets bought from Baba Ghulam Baksh Ziyarat. Major Rathore gives a cursory glance to the items, examines the currency, and puts it back in the drawer. Two soldiers enter the kitchen that is blackened with the soot of burnt cowpats. They check under the pile of firewood, inside a pot of butter, as well as the sack of maize flour. They run their hands through a heap of pomegranate seeds and check the sack of red chillies. The saucers and cauldrons are checked and the spices are smelled. In a corner, lie three unwashed plates.
Major Rathore examines the kitchen with a keen eye. He lifts up a used plate and feels the markings of slithery butter on it with the tip of his finger. He does the same with the other two plates as well. He can feel the tiny granules of maize bread in the butter. “Two people and three plates,” he thinks and his eyes narrow. Then he checks the cups and finds that three of them remain unwashed. The pinkish dregs of salty tea stain the bottom and sides of the porcelain cups.
“What the fuck!” he says, and hurriedly comes out of the house.
~~~
Kausar Jan is the only woman brought to the classroom. Major Rathore wants to have a chat with her. He is respectful and asks her to sit on a bench as he calls for tea. “Ammi, have a cup, I know it has been a difficult day for you and the village. I beg your forgiveness, but what can I do when it is my duty to save our brothers and sisters from the terrorists?”
He extends a small glass of steaming hot tea towards her.
The fact that Major Rathore has called her Ammi puts Kausar Jan at ease. Is he her fifth son? She refuses the tea, but Major Rathore insists. A few sips of tea soothe her frayed nerves. He then orders the JCOs to leave the room. “It seems this year the maize crop is going to bring abundant flour to the houses of the poor villagers,” he says, trying to win her trust.
He looks affectionately at Kausar Jan, noticing the grey strands in her hair and her wizened hands holding the glass. “My mother is almost your age and she waits for me all the time. Wouldn’t she be delighted if I landed in Jaipur right now?” Major Rathore says with a twinkle in his eye, as if he were talking to his own mother. He then falls into a long silence and takes small sips from his glass.
“When was the last time Shakeel visited you, Ammi?” he asks softly; he does not want to intimidate her. “When was the last time he gave you money?” Kausar Jan realises then that Major Rathore knows everything about the previous night and that she has not been called to the classroom to talk about the maize crop.
She does not want to lie, for it might bring trouble to Khalid. Tears fill her eyes as she starts to speak, “My other son Khalid stays at home with me, he is a good boy. I do not even know where Shakeel has been these three years, and last night, when he knocked on the door, I did not even recognise him with that beard.”
“I understand your dilemma. What could you do when faced with a gun, even if it is carried by your own son?” Major Rathore’s words are kind, much to her relief. “Did he come alone? Did he reveal where he was headed for?” A few more polite questions are directed at her. Major Rathore knows that his source of information has not failed him.
He pardons the mother’s love and orders Kausar Jan to be escorted back to the queue of women. After all, she had no choice when Shakeel knocked on her door. The only things she had to offer were tears, love and some butter.
Excerpted with permission from Red Maize, Danesh Rana, HarperCollins India.